Picking On Someone My Own Size

Every time - and I mean *every* time - my mom and I are in the same room, the discussion inevitably turns to height. There is a constant need to determine who is tallest, or rather, who is shortest, since that is the least enviable status. We will visit for hours without the subject coming up, but as soon as we begin to depart, the following scene takes place:

We will be saying our goodbyes at the door when Mom will turn to hug me, and will say, "How did you get so short?" I will argue that we're the same height, and then before you can blink an eye, our shoes are off and we are standing back-to-back, surrounded by various witnesses who are crouched down so that our heads are at their eye level. If my sister is with us, then she will be subjected to the same routine. Of course, we never come to a final agreement on who is the shortest, as there are usually many accusations of poofy hair, or some other obstacle to an accurate measurement.

(Yes, we could use a tape measurer and measure our individual heights and then compare them, but where is the fun in that?)

The last time Mom came up to visit, the brouhaha was just beginning when Jay announced he had finally had enough. (He has only had to deal with it for 9 years ... I've been dealing with it all my life, the lightweight!) Jay went to the garage and came back with a gargantuan level. We stood back to back, had the level placed across our heads, and had pictures taken of the result:

Huh. Turns out I *am* the shortest after all.

(Although, if you look closely, you'll see that Mom's hair is much poofier than mine... I'm sure it affected the outcome....)